Like many Catholic schoolchildren I was obsessed with visions of Heaven and Hell so at the tender age of 9 I decided I would become a priest. I was encouraged in my goal by Sister Ludmilla who solemnly convinced me that only priests and nuns were guaranteed a spot in heaven. The only other demographic that had a chance were lay Catholics but even they would spend several centuries in purgatory before they got to the pearly gates. “But don’t worry,” Sister Ludmilla assured me, “it goes by fast.” As for non-Catholics? “They’ll burn,” she said, with a satisfied nod.
I have since realized that you should never take career advice from someone whose own job description includes “chastity,” but when I was 9, I did not know this. Thinking to jump-start my career, Sister Ludmilla got me a coveted position as an altar boy at the brand new St John the Baptist Catholic Church.
Wasn’t I proud? Knowing I was on the fast track to heaven I showed up one fine Sunday and was delirious to learn I was to be the BellBoy. This is an important position. It is the duty of the BellBoy to ring the bells during Communion. This is done, Father Patrick assured me, to wake up drowsy congregates and focus their attention on the sacrament. The bells, he informed me, were only to be rung twice during the mass; he would look at me and nod when it was time to ring them. He repeated his instructions twice, made me repeat them once and seemed satisfied that I understood. The bells, by the way, looked and sounded exactly like sleighbells.
As the mass commenced my heart raced madly as I waited for my cue. During the welcoming prayers, however, I caught sight of someone dozing in the back of the church. Remembering Father’s statement that the bells helped to focus attention on the mass, I gave those bells a good, hearty shake. Father never missed a beat, but he looked at me and shook his head ever so slightly.
A moment later I saw two older women conversing, so I rang the bells again, louder. Father looked at me, frowned ever so slightly and shook his head again. I ignored him, my eyes searching the church for miscreants, as though I was God’s own classroom monitor.
There was no stopping me: As we settled in for the sermon, I rang the bells. When Father made what I felt was a compelling point, I rang the bells. When the sermon seemed to be dragging I rang the bells for an extended period. By the time we offered the Sign of Peace I could make the bells do “La Cucaracha.” Father was glaring at me with pure hatred.
When Communion came, I was ready. During the Consecration, the holiest part of the Mass, I was ringing those bells like they were a tambourine. Father’s every utterance was greeted by bells. The congregation’s every “Amen!” was punctuated by more bells. I heard someone coughing in a prolonged and disrespectful manner so I let rip with a two-fisted, over the head shake. I found out later it was my dad, who was laughing so hard he had to go outside.
After the mass was over I led the procession out of the church and into the vestibule where Father told me, with some restraint, to hang up my cassock and go home. I was never invited back. My career as an altar boy was over before it began and with it went my priestly ambitions. I guess I’ll burn.